


Fatherly Guidance

by wargoddess



Series: A Family Affair [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Breakup Sex, Incest, Light BDSM, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Rimming, Rough Sex, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 11:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: Post-DMC5, Nero's struggling to cope with some aspects of part-demon life. Dante just helps him get drunker. It takes a father's firm hand to get him sorted out.





	Fatherly Guidance

**Author's Note:**

> No rape in this -- dubcon, because someone basically says no and the other party ignores it, but as the story notes, these people aren't human and their morality is, uh, different. Note for those who don't know that Nero is a grown-ass adult and could, if he wanted, kick his father's ass, as he has done previously in canon.

     There wasn't enough liquor.  Nero had drunk his way through the clear alcohols and made a good run at the brown ones, and it was obvious already that he was going to finish those off before he passed out.  It had been enough to get him drunk, at least. When he heard Dante curse somewhere on the other side of the room, it took him a moment to understand why, which meant that his brain was probably pretty pickled.  That was good.  Progress. 

     Instead of yelling at him, Dante grumbled and thumped over to sit behind the desk that Nero had slumped in front of.  After a moment, a slice of pizza came sailing from above to land in Nero's lap.

     "Manna," Nero said, then laughed and picked up the slice.  Still hot.  Olives, though.  He ate it anyway.

     "Pizza's better," Dante said from somewhere above and behind him.  The voice of God, not.  "Manna's just meant to keep you alive when you're starving, remember.  Not exactly haute cuisine."  Nero laughed again, not even embarrassed that his voice cracked.

     "So, kid, is there any point in me asking now why you just drank up my bar's entire supply of alcohol -- particularly given that I thought you didn't drink?  Or should I just wait 'til you sober up?"

     "Didn't get it all."  Nero pointed up at the topmost shelf, which was still untouched.

     "That's only 'cause your short ass didn't want to stand on a chair.  So correction:  why'd you drink up _the low-hanging fruit_ of my bar's entire supply?"

     "Thirsty."

     Dante sighed.  Another slice of pizza landed on Nero's lap.  Heaven was generous.  Nero turned it around to eat crust-first.  That was probably how demons should eat pizza, right?  Twisted.  But the olives still sucked.

     "Okay," Dante said.  "Let's try narrowing this down.  Demon stuff, or women stuff?"

     "Women stuff."  Nero tried to will himself to form a claw with his right hand so that he could pick off the olives without disturbing the cheese.  It didn't work on the first two tries, and then his hand transformed into a spectral set of claws which blurred forward to shred both the pizza and the hand holding it.  "Ow, fuck!  Demon stuff." 

     "Way to narrow it down.  And quit playing with yourself."  Then Dante paused.  "Demon... women?  Damn it, Nero, I _told_ you about Trish.  She's got those teeth.  _There._  And even if we can grow it back, I couldn't get it up for like a month because I kept _thinking_ about it.  Actual nightmares."

     Nero let his hands fall into his lap so they'd both go back to normal -- the left hand growing back all the tendons and bones he'd just ruined, and the right hand transforming back into the perfectly human-looking appendage that he still wasn't used to.  When he could use the shredded hand again again, he sighed and shook off the blood and pizza fragments.  Things had been so much easier when he'd simply been a human being with a freaky hand.  He'd known how to handle that.  Now his hand was _deceptively_ human, hiding its true nature beneath a veneer of normalcy... just like the rest of him.  Now he had a rebel demon prince for a grandfather and a couple of half-monster assholes for blood relatives, and everything was suddenly so _complicated_.

     "I would never do that," Nero snapped at Dante.  "Trish isn't even my type.  And you know I've got a girlf -- " 

     Then his soaked memory caught up with reality, and he bit back what he'd almost said so fiercely that his teeth clicked.

     " _Ohhhh._ "  To his even greater fury, Dante actually sounded compassionate.  That wasn't right.  Demons weren't supposed to feel sympathy, any more than they were supposed to cry.  "Ah, shit, kid.  I can't say I'm not surprised, but... for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

     "Not surprised?"  Unexpectedly, hearing this did not anger Nero.  It hurt, instead, and sent shame squirming through his belly.  He shut his eyes against it and grabbed blindly for the half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting beside him.  It burned his throat going down, making him choke a little as he spat, "You think I'm that much of a shitstain, is that it?  So terrible that no decent woman would ever want to..."

     "No.  I just don't think she's _enough_ for you, is all."

     " _What?_ "  Then Nero processed the words again, and realized his brain had added an adjective to what Dante actually said.  Dante hadn't said _good_ enough.  Just... enough.  And that stopped Nero from launching into a furious tirade, because those had been the exact words Kyrie said, before she walked out.

     The worst thing was, he understood why she'd left.  Completely.  He didn't want to, but he did. 

     "Fuck," he muttered, and drank some more.

     After a while, Dante sighed and got up.  Nero heard him moving around over by the bar.  A click, a metallic shift, and then Dante moved around the front of the desk, dropping something into Nero's lap that wasn't pizza.  Nero picked it up and frowned when the thing warmed against his fingers.  A metal flask, he realized after a moment, covered in etched runes and raised motifs of... singing?  screaming?  angels.  It was heavier than it should have been for its size, and as he turned it, something sloshed inside that sounded a lot thicker than liquor.

     He frowned at Dante, who flopped onto the nearby couch and put one leg up on the coffee table.  Dante tossed his head back to get his hair out of his eyes -- he'd shaven off the hideous, scraggly beard at last, but seemed willing to let his hair grow wild.  It suited him.  "Little something I picked up on our last underworld tour," he said to Nero.  "Have a swallow.  _One_ swallow.  More than that'll probably kill you."

     Nero sighed, unscrewing the cap.  The stuff inside glowed bright orangey-red, like lava.  Weirdly, though, it smelled like apples.  "I've been shot," he said.  "Impaled on a lance.  Chopped nearly in half.  Set on fire, electrocuted, drowned in stinking blood -- "

     "Yeah, yeah.  _One_.  And I wouldn't have let you drink that much before Redgrave."

     This made Nero frown, but Dante's expression was its usual unreadable insouciance.  Why after Redgrave...?  It was too hard to think.  Nero curled his lip at Dante, lifted the flask in an ironic toast, and then tossed it down.  _Two_ swallows, after which he very pointedly capped the flask, glaring at Dante.  "There.  Fuck you."

     And then mind-blinding pain and a cacophony of eldritch shrieking swirled out of nowhere to consume him, and he lost himself in a storm of red burning ecstasy for three or four eternities.

     When he recovered enough for coherent thought, he found that only minutes had passed, though he was now sprawled half under Dante's desk.  Dante stood over him with the flask in his hand, having reclaimed it during Nero's apparent convulsions.  He snorted down at Nero.  "Dumbass."

     Nero flailed his way back into a sitting posture, clumsily, while Dante returned to his couch-throne.  "What.  Who do.  How that."

     "Qliphoth liqueur.  From the male version of the plant, not the big girl we fought through.  The liqueur's made from the -- shit, Vergil told me and I can't remember the word.  Stickens?  Stavens?"

     "Stamens?"  Once upon a time, Nero had been well-educated; the Order spared no expense on its foundlings.  " _Stamens_ , Dante?  You're telling me this is made from, what, people-eating demon plant _sperm_?"

     "Yeah, that's it!"  Dante grinned, then took a swig from the flask himself.  The glow of it swiftly suffused his whole body, and he shuddered violently, shutting his eyes and uttering a soft groan that was entirely not the kind of sound Nero ever wanted to hear his uncle make.  Which of course reminded Nero of his other problem.  He brooded on it while Dante gasped for breath, shook his head, muttered a swift, appreciative _Yeah_ , then capped the flask again.  "Puts some chest on your chest.  Whoo."

     The lingering effect of the Qliphoth liqueur seemed to have spread a kind of energized lassitude throughout Nero, and he blinked at Dante owlishly.  The world looked as if a gentle pastel haze had been draped over everything.  It felt good, now that that initial burst of overwhelming pain and demonic emanation had passed.  Too good, maybe.

     "I saw you," Nero blurted finally, unable to hold it in any longer.  When Dante made a vague inquisitive sound, Nero sighed.  "You and... Vergil."  It would never feel right to call him _Dad_ or _Father_ or any of the other traditional terms of relationship.  Dante had done more to earn that fatherly place in his life, and Dante only gave half a fuck about him.  But.  "Together."

     Dante laughed.  It was soft, but Nero heard nothing rueful or ashamed in it.  Which in itself answered some of the questions lingering in Nero's mind, in the wake of seeing his father plow his uncle halfway through a broken wall. 

     They'd been fighting, again -- just a sparring match, he'd seen at once.  No swords or guns, just superhuman strength and, whenever their demonic forms roared free, claws and teeth.  There had been something off about it from the start, though, Nero remembered thinking.  An intensity.  A quiet focus that, foolishly, he'd thought might be about him.  Maybe they were keeping quiet for fear that Nero, with his naïve insistence that they all act something like _family_ , would come break up the fight again.  Except that hadn't been it at all, he'd finally understood, as Vergil pinned Dante down and Dante laugh-growled and then groan-howled, and their movements hadn't been anything resembling _fighting_ for several long, blistering moments before Nero's dick finally confirmed what his stunned mind tried to deny --

     "Mmm," Dante said.  That purr in his voice wasn't the liqueur.  "Yeah."

     "Jesus, Dante!"  The liqueur was too powerful.  Nero reached for explosive fury and only managed confused spluttering, instead.  "What --  How _could_ you?  He's your brother!"

     "Did it turn you on?"

     Nero froze.  "What?"

     Dante lowered his head to gaze at Nero.  The smile on his lips was cruel, the look in his eyes knowing, the tilt of his head proud.  "Simple question, kid.  _Did it.  Turn you.  On._   Did you watch?  Did you wish you could join in?"

     Nero stared back at him, horrified and -- and --  "No!  Of  fucking course not!"

     There fell a moment of silence between them.  Dante lifted an eyebrow in blatant skepticism, then put his head back again.  "We're not human, kid.  Family means whatever we want it to mean.  And demons... demons are all about the senses, see.  Sensation.  Fighting, feasting, killing, fucking.  All the same thing, really."

     "You're not a demon, either!"  _We're not demons.  I'm not a demon._

     He could see Dante's smile, at this.  "Would've loved to hear you say that, once... but it's not true.  The demon's inside me.  Vergil woke mine up a long time ago -- same way we just woke up yours.  And if you're anything like us, now that it's awake, yours is gonna... want things.  It's just part of who you are, now."

     There was a prickling sensation all over Nero's skin.  This was probably the liqueur, still working its way through his bloodstream, drunkenness compounding his shock.  It was also something else.

     _What's gotten into you, Nero?  Lately you've been so different.  Last night, you... you scared me._

     "No," Nero said.  Trembling with memory.  He hadn't hurt her.  It had been a near thing, but he hadn't. 

     He could hear the flex of leather as Dante shrugged.  "Ehn.  You're mostly human.  Maybe it'll be different for you."  Then Dante sighed and pushed himself to his feet again, pocketing the liqueur.  He regarded Nero for a long moment, his usual omnipresent meaningless smile in place, his gaze more than skeptical.  _Speculative_.  Which was also not a thing Nero ever wanted to see, from his uncle.

     But was that because Dante was his uncle?  Or -- ?

     "He saw you, too, you know," Dante said.  Still smiling.

     "What?"  But Nero knew.  Remembered, suddenly, that just before he'd turned away, just as he'd cursed and told himself that his dick was only hard because that was just a thing dicks did, no different from that time he'd jerked off thinking about Credo and then felt weird about it for a year, young men get horny when the fucking wind blows and not, decidedly _not,_ when they see --

     _Soft, rhythmic growls.  A churning confusion of human limbs and demonic wings and pale flesh and leathery hide.  They kept_ changing _, human to demon and back, while they fucked.  While Dante moaned, writhing and helpless in Vergil's hands/talons, and Vergil kept a hand on the back of Dante's head and then looked up to smile, ever-so-slightly, into his son's openmouthed face.  Then he had drawn a claw-tipped hand along Dante's flank, watching Nero's reaction to the appearance of thin red lines on Dante's skin, and there had been something_ speculative _in his face, too --_

     "G'night, kid," Dante said, turning to head upstairs with a jaunty wave.  "Some free advice, though?  Take the couch.  Easier on the joints."

     Then he was gone.

     Nero sat there on the floor of Dante's shadow-strewn "office," too drunk to think, listening to the faint creak of the old ceiling fan, hearing Dante kick up something way too loud on his bedroom jukebox which nevertheless was dulled to only bass thumping by Devil May Cry's thick walls.  No idea how the old man could sleep through that shit.  Though maybe the liqueur helped, because after a while Nero closed his eyes too, in spite of the noise.  His eyelids felt like lead.  When he managed to lift them again, there was a different song on the jukebox and it was probably hours later.  The witching hour, he guessed.

     And Vergil sat on the other side of the room, reading a book.

     Nero froze.  He did not like being on the floor, ten feet away from the Red Queen (which he'd propped against the bar during his drinking binge), with this man around.  Vergil seemed engrossed in his book, which he'd propped on one folded leg; he turned its pages with one hand and with the other sipped occasionally from a tiny glass of -- well, shit -- red-gold, brightly-glowing liqueur.  His body glimmered faintly with each sip, but otherwise the liqueur didn't seem to affect him.  Of course.  Vergil was the picture of elegance and control, as always.  Nero had given up being jealous of his father's effortless beauty.  It was all a lie, anyway.  Just a pretty veneer over the monster that was Vergil's true face.

     _You've changed_ , Kyrie murmured in his memory.  Nero flinched.

     Something changed about Vergil.  He'd been mostly still before, but that was stillness and this was _stillness_.  He hadn't so much as glanced at Nero, but Nero wasn't stupid.  Hunting creatures had that same kind of stillness, just before a strike.

     And since Nero wasn't interested in being his father's prey -- again -- he pushed himself up a little, knocking over a couple of the bottles he'd emptied, and drew up his legs.  He could fight from this position.  He could fight from any position.  But against Vergil, every milisecond counted, so --

     "I assume she left you?"  Vergil's voice was a drawl in the dark.  "That's the reason for this pathetic display?"

     Fucking hell.  Nero set his jaw.  "She still loves me."  She'd said that.  He tried not to make the words sound petulant.

     "Some things have nothing to do with love."  Vergil closed the book and looked up at Nero, with the faintly disdainful expression that seemed to be his default look.  Vergil had resting everything-smells-bad face, though this was not inappropriate for Devil May Cry.  "Dante and I, for example."

     Which completely confused Nero, because... because... damn it, he'd _seen_ the way they looked at each other, even while each was trying his damnedest to murder the other.  And would Vergil have done all the things he did -- trying to raise the demon world twice, tearing himself in two, putting it all together again and then integrating himself back into Dante's life in however fucked-up a fashion -- if not for love of his brother?  And weren't they _lovers_ , for shit's sake?

     Then Nero flinched again, because somewhere in his confused maundering -- shit, he was still drunk -- Vergil had crossed the room, and now he crouched in front of Nero.  In the dimness, he was little more than a blue-limned silhouette smelling of leather and expensive cologne and just the faintest whiff of sulfur.  But Nero could always see his eyes.

     "It _did_ turn you on," Vergil said.  Thoughtfully.

     Nero went rigid.  Shit.  Shit.  He covered nerves with belligerence, out of habit.  "You and Dante been having nice phone chats these days, when he tattles on me?  Texting each other like besties, and all that?  Let me guess:  he uses all the emojis with devil horns."

     Vergil let out a soft breath that was probably his version of a laugh.  "Our bond is more than brotherly."  He lifted a hand and cupped Nero's face in a way that had nothing to do with affection.  Far too possessive for that.  When Nero tried to pull away, the hand was suddenly around his throat.  Not squeezing.  Just there, when half a second before it had not been.  "And some things are obvious."

     He was almost ready when Vergil threw him across the room.  He flipped and landed on his feet, though the momentum of the throw slammed his back into the bar and shattered one of Dante's bar stools.  Snarling, Nero grabbed for the Red Queen that was now conveniently nearby, and had it up in a defensive gesture before he could think.

     Vergil did not come at him again, however.  He nodded at the Red Queen in obvious, patronizing, amusement.  "Feel better, now?"  As if Nero's fucking sword was a security blanket.  As if he'd known how afraid Nero was, and this was his way of mocking that fear, the bastard.

     And -- shit again.  Vergil had not drawn a weapon.  Nero had been the one to put the kibbosh on any of them fighting seriously, so now he looked like a hypocrite.  Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the sword, then set it aside.  When he looked up from doing this, however, Vergil was _right there in front of him_ again, entirely too fucking close, why the fuck did he keep _doing_ that?  This time he braced his hands against the bar on either side of Nero, bracketing him in.  Nero tried not to draw back, give ground, show fear, but he knew he was doing a shitty job of all of it.  His heart was still racing, probably from the aborted fight.  Probably.  Except... it hadn't _felt_ like a fight, not exactly.  And he didn't feel like fighting, either, exactly.  Shit, he actually felt kind of --

     "Such a beautiful boy," Vergil said, looking him over with the eye of a butcher considering cuts of meat.  "If I may say so myself.  Could do with better taste in clothing, something that would flatter your frame, but... you turned out well, nevertheless."

     "Thanks," Nero snapped.  His voice shook, despite his every effort.  "You want to back off?"

     "Now, why would I do that?"  He was too close.  Nero gave up and tried to pull back, but again Vergil was faster, and he felt a mouth brush his own in the briefest of presses.  He flinched from this -- his _father_ , Jesus, _kissing_ him -- but Vergil looked pleased.  "Excellent reflexes, too.  Variety will be entertaining, I think."

     Okay, no.  " _What the hell is that supposed to --_ "

     "Did she say that you scared her, when you made love?" Vergil asked.  When Nero went stiff and did not answer, Vergil's smile grew into a full-on smirk.  He leaned a little to the side, put his face beside Nero's.  "Did the smell of her fear excite you, before you got a hold of yourself?"

     Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.  He needed to push Vergil away.  He needed to run.  He needed to kill something.  He needed -- shit, no, not that.  And instead, he just stood there, shaking with fury and a swiftly-building frustration that was going to break him if he didn't do _something_.  He bared his teeth and heard the growl of the demon in his own voice.  " _Fuck_ you!"

     Vergil's answering smile was possibly the most elegantly evil thing that Nero had ever seen.

     Nero broke.  He shoved at Vergil's chest, and actually got him to back off a step -- but then an instant later Vergil slid off to the side, caught one of his arms, twisted it up behind him, and swept his legs.  Nero ended up a pretzel on the floor, grunting with impact, furious and thwarted.  "Oh, _do_ fight me," Vergil purred, behind his head.  "Please.  I find it very exciting.  Don't you?"

     And Nero froze, his eyes widening.  _Oh shit, what the fuck is **wrong** with me --?_

     The world blurred again and suddenly he was facing the bar, pressed down onto it, with the heat of his father's body covering his back and a broad hand, heavy as adamant, pressing his head into the old wooden surface.  He cursed and pushed back, but maybe he was still drunk; he couldn't seem to summon his demon's strength, so this time Vergil didn't budge.  That would've been enough, he knew.  He was a match for Vergil, when he wanted to be.

     When he wanted to be...

     "Maybe someday," Vergil breathed into his ear, sounding amused.  Nero frowned in confusion, then belatedly realized Vergil was replying to his _fuck you_.  "You did like the claw-work, didn't you?  He has such lovely skin, and I have... wondered."  Lips brushed Nero's ear, and he shivered despite himself.  "Ah, but Dante is selfish."

     "Whatthefuck."  Nero tried not to think about it, and failed.  _Dante, moaning in abject delight while Vergil drew patterns of pain into his skin._   God, just the sight of that had been --

     His uncle.  That was his fucking _uncle_ he was thinking about.  And his father whose dick was making itself known against his ass.

     "Get off me!" Nero made himself say.  Made himself.  Why was it so hard to say what he should?  Not that it mattered, because Vergil ignored him.  Why wouldn't the strength to kick Vergil's ass come to him?  And why did he feel so --

     "You're getting stronger," Vergil said, nuzzling at the nape of his neck.  It was completely twisted, the way he kept _touching_ Nero, insistent intimacy, all while speaking in that calm, almost-affectionate tone.  He might as well have been narrating a nature show.  It was even more twisted that Nero felt himself responding to every touch -- breathing harder, relaxing a little, wanting more.  "Right now, though?  You barely understand yourself.  And that makes you weak."  He paused for a moment, thoughtful.  "Only fitting that the duty falls to me, I suppose."

     He straightened behind Nero, though he kept that heavy, immobilizing hand on Nero's head.  _Just like how he'd held Dante's head down,_ and why did that thought make Nero's whole body light up like he'd had another sip of Qliphoth liqueur?  Behind him, Nero could near leather shifting, buckles jangling.  Clothes coming off.

     "Stop," Nero blurted.  He was shaking.  His heartbeat was in his ears, nearly drowning out the thump of Dante's music upstairs.  If he called for help, would Dante come? 

     Maybe.  Only... only he didn't _want_ to call for help.

     "You don't smell like reluctance, you know," Vergil said.  Still in that pleasant, conversational tone.  "Quite the opposite.  It's easy to tell that all your protests are... performative."

     Fuck.

     Abruptly Nero realized the hand was no longer on his head.  It hadn't been, for a while.  Startled, he pushed himself up, but before he could turn, Vergil pressed harder against him, and this time there was nothing between them but skin.  When had his clothes... oh God.  He tried to catch his breath and couldn't.  He couldn't stop sweating, panting.  Teeth grazed his shoulder, just a little too sharp to be fully human, and he shuddered with something that definitely wasn't revulsion.

     This wasn't right.  This was his fucking _father_.  He shouldn't --

     Vergil sighed, as if bored by Nero's thoughts.  "When will you accept the truth?"

     "What f-fucking truth?  I -- "

     "You aren't human.  You never were."  Hands slid over his chest, one sharp nail slicing through a nipple which healed almost instantly, and Nero bit his tongue so hard that he tasted blood.  If he hadn't, he would have moaned.  Worse, Vergil's other hand was on his cock, working it in a steady, relentless rhythm.  He couldn't think through that pleasure, these little intoxicating hits of pain.  He wanted more and hated himself for it.  "And you don't have to _pretend_ to be human anymore.  Not for us.  Isn't this what you wanted, when you forced us to stop fighting?  Family? People who could acknowledge _all_ of you, not just three-quarters?"

     Nero froze again, his eyes widening even as Vergil slid a very long, wet tongue slowly over every individual vertebra of his spine.  And then -- 

     God.

     He shuddered violently, letting his eyes flutter shut, trying not to let himself enjoy, failing --

     _Fuck_.

     He shut his eyes and heard nothing but Dante's shitty music and soft wet sounds and his own ragged, rapid panting.  So good.  It was already the best sex he'd ever had, and they weren't even done.

     _Isn't this what you wanted?_

     So good, not to have to pretend, or hold back, or be anything more -- or less -- than what he truly was.

     "Mmm.  That's better."  Now, finally, there was hunger in Vergil's voice, as he stood.  He leaned close again, and Nero welcomed the feel of his weight and heat.  And pressure, and burning -- but that was good, too, wasn't it?  He liked it.  He shut his eyes and willed himself not to come, just as he'd done on that day.  Not yet, anyway.

     "It d-did turn me on," he admitted, against the bar-top.

     Vergil's voice was a soft laugh in the dark, now, broken by steady, rhythmic breaths.  Nero could feel the light, white-hot sting of claws tracing lines along his skin, and _fuck_ he was going to come from that alone if Vergil didn't stop soon.  "Of course it did.  You enjoyed watching us."

     He couldn't lie, not anymore.  Not laid open here, at the mercy of his own need.  "Y-yeah..."

     "You like that I don't care if you say no."

     "Nnh."  Nero wanted to say no out of sheer contrariness, now, but he still couldn't manage it.  "Fucker."

     Vergil laughed, then leaned close.  His voice got low, seductive, sending a shiver up Nero's spine.  "You like that it hurts."

     He did.  God.  Fuck.  He really did.

     "You like that I'm your father."

     Nero groaned, helpless, furious. " _Yes_ , you fucking _pervert_ , I like it!  Now shut _up_ , fuck!  I want to come sometime this year."

     Vergil threw back his head and laughed, long and loud and richly, and only a little wild.  Always so controlled, even amid pure demonic delight.  Then, thank all the gods and goddesses and demon kings, he finally shut the fuck up and attended to business.

     It was gentle, in spite of everything.  Careful, Nero would realize much later -- and this would annoy the shit out of him, because it meant that Vergil still worried about him being mostly human.  Oh, there was plenty of blood and pain, because after a while the fucking got so good that Nero lost it and his wings appeared and Vergil had to stab him through the shoulder with a piece of broken bar-stool to make him settle down and take it again.  But it wasn't the storm of lust and horror he'd visited upon Dante, and damn it, Nero wanted that.  He wanted it all.

     Next time, then.

     Because when all was said and done, and Nero sat on the floor again, naked, with his father's come running out of him and his own blood drying against the side of the bar, he knew that this had been right.  Not in any human way, of course.  By human terms this was very likely the most fucked-up thing he'd ever done.  But Dante had been right.  This was just who he was, now. 

     And he felt incredibly, guiltlessly _good_ in the wake of this realization, for possibly the first time in his entire life.

     Vergil, the son of a bitch, just stood in the center of the room meticulously replacing his cufflinks and looking far too elegant to have ever left his son a sated wreck on the floor.

     "You know," Vergil drawled, checking his vest to make sure it laid perfectly, "you might not scare her if you did this every so often.  Let the beast come out to play, so to speak.  That would make it easier to keep in check otherwise."

     Nero blinked, then scowled.  Okay, so things _could_ get more fucked up.  "You mean I can have a human girlfriend if I just fuck my inhuman _father_ now and again?  Right.  Okay.  That'll go over great."

     Vergil shrugged.  "Keep crying into Dante's bourbon, then."  He picked up his coat, turned to leave -- and then paused.  Vergil's head turned, just a little.  Nero could not see his face.  "He's off-limits, by the way."

     Wait.  "What?"

     "Dante."  Vergil sounded calm.  Unconcerned.  And yet.  "One day, perhaps, I might be inclined to share.  One day, you might even be strong enough to take him from me."  Nero could actually hear his smile.  "I hope that day doesn't come soon, however.  I find myself pleased at the thought of having both of you.  As... family bonding."

     Nero grimaced at his back.  There was just so much _wrong_ with every part of that statement.

     Then Vergil was gone, and Nero was not only still drunk but thoroughly postcoital, so it was only a matter of time 'til he fell asleep again.

     When he woke, it was daytime -- as evidenced by the noon-high sunbeam lancing in from an upper-level window to bake him where he lay.  He winced away from it, groaning as movement made his head ache more fiercely.  Someone had tossed something over him that looked suspiciously like one of the ancient curtains that had covered DMC's upper windows since before Dante bought the place; it smelled stale and was covered in dust, but made for a decent enough blanket, and -- probably more importantly -- it covered his awkward bits.  Someone was talking nearby, so he sat up enough to make out Dante, feet up at his desk, having a conversation with someone by phone.  Then Dante hung up and regarded him with a wry look.  Nero glared back on general principle.

     "I told you to take the couch," Dante said.

     "Shut up, you geriatric fuckwad."

     "You got a filthy mouth, kid.  Feel better?"

     Nero opened his mouth to snarl that of course he didn't feel better.  His head hurt and his ass was sore and and he had bruises on his bruises, which -- if they were still healing at this point -- meant that Vergil hadn't pulled any of his blows.  His limbs were stiff from sleeping on the hard wooden floor and he really, really, _really_ needed a shower. 

     He closed his mouth, however, as he realized the good feeling he'd had the night before was still present, and also the raw ache of Kyrie's rejection had faded, a little.  Because

     _you might not scare her, if_

     he had hope, now.  And even fucked-up hope was better than nothing.

     Dante snorted, then got up to head over to the coatrack, where his tatty red trench hung.  "Quick empusa cleanup job over in Braithwaite," he said.  "More leftovers from the damn tree.  Probably back by dinner-time tonight."

     Nero had, until very recently, eaten at home with Kyrie.  He couldn't bear being there now, alone.  He grimaced.  "I, uh, need a place to crash.  'Til I can move someplace new."

     "Stay as long as you like.  As long as you clean up your mess; there's a bucket and scrub-brush behind the bar.  I'd like it to _not_ look like you got laid on it, thanks, by the time I get back."

     Nero blushed in spite of himself.  "Uh.  Yeah.  Okay.  Sorry."

     "Also, you can start paying me back for all the liquor you drank last night.  And be glad I didn't charge you for the Qliphoth liqueur, or you'd be indentured to me for the next century or two."

     "Right, right."  Nero sat back, comforted by the routine of Dante's bitching.  It was all right.  He'd thought things would be weird now.  Fucking his father -- who was fucking his twin brother -- both of whom were apparently okay with them now all being one big freaky, fucking, family -- should have been weird.  But Dante hadn't changed.

     Then Nero found himself fascinated by the lithe strength of Dante's movements as he put on his coat.  Vergil was all tension and release, controlled danger, but Dante had a careless grace that was really kind of --

     Dante paused, then glanced over his shoulder at Nero, raising his eyebrows.  Nero blushed furiously and quickly busied himself with getting up to look for his clothes, holding the curtain gathered around his waist.

     "Dumbass," Dante said, amused, then walked out.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God, I'm already thinking that the next one will be called "Say Uncle." I am so predictable in my depravity.
> 
> Sidenote: always thought it was wild that Nero hooked up with Kyrie, with whom he was *raised like a brother.* That's way freakier to me than consensual sex between two male relatives who didn't grow up together. But maybe that's just me.


End file.
